


The Job

by Deannie



Category: I Spy (1965)
Genre: Angst, Gen, waiting in the hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:25:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5662879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is when the job sucks more than anything they tell you to expect. Every agent knows he could catch a bullet some day, but no one tells you how much worse it is when you <i>don’t</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Job

It’s not all fun and games, you know?

Maybe it sounds like that at first. Be a spy, see the world, save a damsel in distress or two. And when your cover is being an up-and-comer on the international tennis circuit? Well, the damsels come in hordes, don’t they?

But when you’re sitting in a waiting room, desperate for word that your partner’s going to be all right, the fun and games go out the window. You remember the stuff they taught you in the Academy about how much Hell you're really likely to see, and you realize they were sugar-coating it even then. The only thing you want for the damsel is a quick death at your own hand—once they tell you if your pal is going to live or not.

God, Scottie...

She was aiming for me. Hell, I don’t think she even _saw_ him there, off in the shadows. But he saw her—just not soon enough to stop the bullet before it left the gun. Sure as hell stopped it before it got to me, though, didn’t he?

He’s never what people expect, you know? Scottie? He comes off as comic relief sometimes—when he wants to. An expert at playing the fool. But he’s got more education in his head than half the guys in the government we serve. He jokes about being a basketball coach when he gets old, but Scottie could make it as a professor at any college he wanted. _Any_ college.

He wanted to help, though. He wanted to join the great crusade to keep America safe. Somehow, I doubt he wanted to die this young. No matter what they tell you when you join, you never think the bullet’s going to hit you. Figure you’ll die an ancient, doddering, washed up spy in the old folk’s home.

Ha, I’d like to see that—the two of us trading memories on our rocking chairs...

“Mr. Robinson?”

The somber voice at the door shoots me to my feet and starts my hands sweating. The doctor is short and Japanese, and his blue surgery smock is smeared with blood. A lot of blood.

_Scottie’s_ blood.

I can barely get the question out. “How is he, Doc?”

“Your friend is very lucky.”

I breathe. First time in a long time, I think.

“The bullet hit an artery under his arm and collapsed his left lung on its way out. He has a tube to reduce the build up of blood in his chest, but the surgery went very well.” He nods, like he’s just coming to this decision right now. “I expect a full recovery.” And then, of course, he shakes his head. “But it will be a while.”

I nod my understanding. Whatever. I don’t care. I just need him to be all right.

I _need_ it. Stops me in my tracks for a second, but it’s true. Scottie’s… He’s vital. He’s… “When can I see him?”

The doctor looks dubious. “He does have you listed as his next-of-kin, though I suspect that is more for convenience than—”

“The paperwork is in order, Doc,” I railroad over him. We made sure. All partners do. No way one of us dies alone or lets his partner die alone because of bureaucratic mumbo jumbo. “When can I see him?”

He huffs. “He will be in a room soon,” he concedes shortly. “I will have a nurse come and get you when he is settled.”

“Thanks,” I murmur as he disappears. The coffee vending machine in the corner taunts me and I head for it and my tenth or eleventh cup. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” I tell it, as it disgorges more sludge into a styrofoam cup.

I’ll have to call his mom eventually. God, I need to know more before I do that, though. Can’t just spring this on them without knowing if he’s really going to be okay.

He has to be, right?

I sit in the crappy chair and put the coffee down so I can put my head in my hands, and the whole damn thing plays out like a movie behind my eyelids, all over again…

> _As far as femme fatales went, Clarissa Monat wasn’t exceptional: the usual tall, leggy blonde with the whiskey voice. Her gun was bigger than most, though._
> 
> _He’d been unprepared for her to find out about him—he’d thought he’d been so damn smart, shadowing her like that. Fat lot of good his sidearm did him, sitting in his ankle holster when the time came._
> 
> _“I wouldn’t have pegged you for one of the good guys, Kelly,” she said, that high-bore pistol aimed squarely at his heart. Her gaze lingered over him for a moment before she shrugged. “Oh well, one less minor player on the circuit.”_
> 
> _She fired, and Kelly felt himself slammed to the side with all the force of a quarterback being sacked in the endzone. Scottie cried out as they fell, but Kelly’s training kicked in and he spun out from under his partner, pulling his gun finally and aiming it at the empty air where Monat had been._
> 
> _”Damn it,” he whispered, shaking his head. He turned back to Scottie, only just now noticing that his partner hadn’t moved after shoving him out of the line of fire. "You okay, Scottie?" he asked quietly.  
> _
> 
> _“Got a… little problem here,” Scottie muttered as he rolled painfully onto his back and looked down at his own chest, gasping for breath in a way that made Kelly’s face go numb with horror. Blood was starting to overtake Scottie’s white shirt. He was bleeding way too much from an entry wound under his arm and the exit wound in his chest was… bubbling..._
> 
> _“Aw, hell, partner,” Kelly said, dropping to his knees and grabbing his handkerchief out of his pocket. “All right, hold on now, you hear me?”_
> 
> _“Yeah, I hear ya,” Scottie whispered. His head fell back, his energy fading fast. Kelly mashed down with the handkerchief but the blood kept coming._
> 
> _Kelly pulled out his radio one-handed and engaged the emergency line. “This is Robinson, 6554893. Emergency medical required immediately at 203 E. Kildare, northwest corner of the main floor.” He looked at the blood now covering his hand. “Move it!”_
> 
> _“Got the drop on you, huh?” Scottie asked breathlessly. And then, damn him, he smiled. “Always told you… women’ll… be the death of ya…”_
> 
> _His eyes closed and Kelly started praying._

“Looks like women won’t be the death of you, though, buddy,” I murmur in the silence of the waiting room. “Not today.”

Thank God. Nervous energy is running over all my nerve endings and I stand, rolling my shoulders and relaxing every muscle as I look at the window opposite me. It’s dawn. My watch says it’s been eight hours since he was hit, but it feels like eternity.

“Hell of a job,” I whisper, walking forward and placing a hand on the cold glass. Isn't done by a long shot, either. Once I know—once I really see for myself—that he's going to be okay, I need to get back to it. I snort, knowing I won't even get a decent nap before I head out. Sunrise is gorgeous and I wish Scottie was here to share it with me.

“Mr. Robinson?”

I turn away from the growing light and find a beautiful woman standing in the doorway.

“I can take you to Mr. Scott’s room now,” she tells me.

I nod and let her lead the way. Just want to check on him. See him breathe for a minute...

There are things to be done. HQ needs a debrief—a real one. I managed to report the information on Monat and her arms dealing buddies when the emergency and clean up teams got there, but by then, more of Scottie’s blood was on me and the floor than in him, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been more polite to some of the drug dealers I’ve taken down.

If they want to reprimand me, they can go right ahead, as soon as I make sure Scottie’s okay and hunt down that bitch that put him in here. Hell, depending on how I feel when I get there, they may just throw me out on my ear for killing her and I won't have to worry about any black mark in my file.

The nurse puts a hand on the knob of room 435 and looks up at me. “There’s a lot of equipment around him, but don’t worry. Your friend will be okay.”

I nod impatiently, but I’m damn glad of the warning once she opens the door. Tubes in his arms, a pipe in his chest, mask on his face…

“You’re a mess, Agent Scott,” I tell him shakily, walking up to the bed and barely noticing the nurse as she leaves and closes the door behind her. He’s unconscious, of course—probably will be for a while from the looks of it. “Human shield isn’t your best look, buddy.” I don’t reach out to him. Don’t want to know if he’s cold. I can't stay here and stare at him and wait for him to wake up. He wouldn't want me to, anyway. He'd want me out there catching bad guys. Alone.

My throat is suddenly tight, and I clear it hard, the sound startling in the silence that’s punctuated only by hisses of air and beeps of monitors. “Um… Doc says you’re gonna be okay.” I snort at the condition he’s in. “Appearances to the contrary. And, uh… I’m gonna go.” My voice hardens. “Track down Monat and her buddies for you.”

I do reach out now—can’t stop myself. He’s cold, damn it. Just like I knew he’d be.

“I’ll be back soon, okay, partner,” I promise him. “Be here when I get back, all right?”

This is when he’d say something funny or flip. This is when he’d tell me to go do the hard part for once, instead of dancing out on the tennis court.

This is when the job sucks more than anything they tell you to expect. Every agent knows he could catch a bullet some day, but no one tells you how much worse it is when you _don’t._

Monat’ll be headed to the coast by now. Our contact said she’s got a compound in Ventura somewhere. So I guess that’s where I’m headed. I’ll really _try_ to bring her in alive, but only because I wouldn’t want to see the look on his face if I don’t.

God, let me see that look when I get back. _Any_ look.

“Take care of yourself, Scottie,” I whisper, heading for the door.

I still have a job to do, after all.

*******  
the end


End file.
